


All For One

by Fuir



Category: Metro - Fandom, Metro 2033 - All Media Types, Metro Last Light, metro 2033
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuir/pseuds/Fuir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, my friend... that's how it goes. Don't be mad, Artyom -  just doing my job to protect the Red Line! And you, musketeer, are from the wrong side of the barricade..."</p><p>The new orders trickled down the line, and Pavel intended to follow them. The Square was to be secured and not a soul was allowed passage- but the situation quickly went awry when an old, unexpected friend reared his stubborn head.</p><p>PoV Pavel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Attonement and Retaliation

Petroff sat in front of him, hunkered down in front of the spotlight. 

Of course, it wasn’t a conventional spotlight. Those were a rarity. This was an imitation, a clunky, hardy gray thing salvaged from car headlights and given a new lease on life now that roads no longer served a purpose. Roads were nothing but chunks of shattered pavement that happened to be in straight, organized grids. Convenient pathways, yes. But sometimes more hazardous than simply skirting around the edges of buildings. Tufts of grass and strange, irradiated moss and fungi threatened to overtake the roads and conceal dips and crevices unseen in the dim light. If you weren’t tripping on your own feet, you were maneuvering around rusted husks of vehicles while trying to stare suspiciously at darkened corners and upward into the cloud cover. The cars were always quiet though. Dependably so. They sat dark and silent and slept as soundly as a forgotten fairy tale.

The spotlight was dark too- but not quiet. Petroff was unjamming a shotgun beside it. Very loudly. Every few moments a periodic shuffle would come from the man, and he’d sigh, put the gun down, then repeat. Making no progress. Pavel had seen him do the same with tea before, slurp it up, sputter, then put it down only try again in a few seconds. Every time, the tea was still much too hot. From Exhibition, Pavel had assumed. It was a strange brew, and not the sort of tea he remembered from the old world. It definitely had its own unique flavour. A bit strong but it was sweet and warm. Comforting.

He looked up from the radio. It too, was quiet. Pavel had received no further orders other than secure The Square- which wasn’t really the Red Square. It was a square. Directly above the Red Line and so it was valued, just as much as the Lenin Library. Which was no longer under Red control. He made an annoyed tsk to himself, causing Petroff to hesitate in his work. After a second he proceeded. Clunk.

“All’s quiet still, hm?” Pavel asked the back big man’s head. He knew it was. Petroff wouldn’t be there fooling with a shotgun if things weren’t. 

Petroff did not turn around. Night-vision goggles were fixed firmly to his head. He overlooked the quiet “square.” Nothing to be seen but destitute building blocks surrounding a wet expanse of field, punctuated by sticky, muddy holes, that made loud squelching sounds if you were unfortunate enough to have to yank your leg from one. There were several rusted out cars resting idly as well, and walls of sheet metal haphazardly erected and reinforced with thick boughs of wood for cover. They creaked in the wind. The rain drummed heavily against them.

“Yes, comrade Morozov.”

Pavel made an affirmative sounding hum, as if politely interested by the man’s stilted words, and spun the chamber to his revolver open idly. He leaned back in his chair. Lowly he hummed to himself, some tune from his childhood he couldn’t remember the name of, or even all the words, but had clung insistently in his mind for years and years after the world had gone to flame.

There had been no activity. Well, none to note. Orders were to allow no passage through the Square. Any stalker who was foolish enough to be wandering about had been quickly barked at through the megaphone to abandon their weapons and keep their hands in the air. Those who did were escorted away. Those who didn’t were now slumped dead in the field before even getting to cover. A few long, skinny winged abominations were already picking at the corpses, trying to tear their tough pointed beaks through masks and between ridges of armour plates and Kevlar to get at the flesh. The bodies had not even been searched.

Pavel watched from his seat as the dark silhouette of one of the odd small creatures took flight, and fluttered upward out of his line of sight from the busted apartment window. He wondered if they had come from crows. He didn’t believe in souls. Of demons who were always below the metro, but never emerged until the bombs fell. This was pure evolution. Accelerated so quickly it would have made Darwin’s head spin.

He spun his revolver shut. He listened to the rain. The drumming rain rolled over the sheet metal like fingers tapping restlessly against the countertop of a bar. It was so quiet. Every figure that approached had given him pause, but he never did hesitate giving the orders over the megaphone, even if he was inwardly calculating. He had been half-expecting a familiar silhouette to appear all evening. Which, admittedly, was almost as silly as expecting a spectre to appear.

The Ranger was gone. There was no doubt about that. 

The first time they met, Pavel had been surprised by him. He wasn’t a terribly imposing looking fellow, but then again, neither was Pavel, but he at least had some mass to him. This man had been a little on the short side, average build, with small, surprisingly uncallused hands. Extremely deft. Very tricky.  
Perhaps he’d heard too many tales about massive, war-hungry Rangers. The relentless dogs of the Order, sniffing out weapon schematics, missiles, only to hover defensively over their toys, growling at anyone who drew near. The way they saw it, it was finders keepers, wasn’t it? They could keep their D6. Their bunker that was worth decades and decades of food and equipment, and everyone else could go to hell.

Well, this Ranger had definitely been different. Quiet, thoughtful. Good at following instructions, but unlike a lot of the men Pavel was used to commanding, he had his own way of going about things. There was always some sort of clever flair when it came to him. Some little trick that made things go more smoothly. Some that even Pavel admittedly couldn’t have thought to do. He really thought he could have gotten through to him. Made him see reason.

He didn’t. Now he was gone. Dead at the very worst.

Pavel turned the revolver in his hand, face slack and bored looking.

Yes, there was always something different about the Ranger. Pavel had known it the first time he laid eyes on him. The younger man was done up in full stalker gear completely caked with mud, like he’d been laying in a ditch for hours. Kneeling, hands bound together, in the holding cell of the Fourth Reich with three other prisoners and a pile of bodies for company. Spiders as big as dinner plates creeping in and out of the bullet wounds, only to scurry up into some dark corner.

It was enough to put even Pavel’s comrade on tenterhooks. The civilian “mutant” had been a total write-off, and Pavel had known he would die in Nazi captivity the moment he had entered the holding cell. Pavel wasn’t even sure about his own odds. It had taken some worming and calculation even for him to like his own chances, and had come at a small sacrifice to his pride. Lying came easily to him, but the satisfaction that crossed the officer’s face when he said he would talk… When that Nazi prick had thought he had intimidated him thoroughly, well, it was enough to make Pavel’s heart pound with anger and indignation. 

The Ranger had looked… Well, not calm. Uneasy at the very least. Despite having an automatic pistol pointed directly at his face he had remained quiet, stubbornly quiet. His gaze had done the talking. Alternating between the barrel of the gun and the officer’s eyes as if challenging him, daring him to make a move.

A move had been made. Not by the officer. Unless dropping dead to the floor was a move. 

Together, the Ranger and Pavel had made their escape. The first of many, as it turned out. In what became typical fashion, the Ranger surprised him. While they had been about to activate the hermetic door, the man had paused while Pavel waited for him to help activate the levers necessary to exit. He remembered trying to urge him onward. He had no clue what the hold-up was. The Ranger had climbed the small cement steps into the elevated control room, and flipped a switch. An alarm sounded. The cells in the gulag had been opened, and Pavel had not even stopped to consider such a move, so focused he was on the mission. The Ranger had been freeing prisoners, who were no doubt doomed.

Pavel scoffed quietly to himself. The Ranger had always seemed a bit too sentimental. A bit of a hopeless romantic. He’d seen the way he would eye old architecture and art, curious, longingly. How he would pause when searching a room to examine an old photograph, or flip through the pages of a musty book. It was for that reason Pavel had let him stay in Bolshoy for the performance. Give him one last show.

Pavel stowed his revolver away, shoving it into its holster. He fiddled idly with the knobs to the radio on the desk before him. A busy action with nothing behind it. There was a strict order for radio silence. Petroff toyed with his shotgun, and after a moment froze and abruptly leaned forward in the darkness, peering into the night.

“Someone’s coming,” the man growled, a hand darting toward the searchlight’s switch.

“Stalker?” Pavel guessed. He watched Petroff warily, and the large man shook his head.

“Pack doesn’t look big,” he muttered. “And the son of a bitch is armed to the teeth.”

“Tak, tak, tak, then, out of the way,” Pavel brushed past him toward the desk overlooking the Square, and reached for the microphone. “Oppa, one more!” he called out, magnifying his voice and alerting his men. The lights snapped on. “Put your weapons on the ground and hands behind your head!”

The floodlights seemed to ignite the rain driving past the beam and the whole front of the apartment lit up, the ground pooled in a harsh white light. The earth glistened and the mud writhed and spat beneath the heavy rivets of rain. Standing beside a rusted out car was the stalker, one gloved hand resting on a corpse strewn over the hood, about half-way into its jacket ostensibly searching for something. The stalker’s face was upturned toward the light, showing nothing but the reflective tint of a gas mask, but the stature was all right. The arsenal, too, Pavel could recognize instantly. 

“Well,” Pavel announced. His stomach felt like it had dropped right down to the floor. This idiot. This stupid, stubborn, little bastard. Of course he would show up. Why wouldn’t he? “I will be damned. It’s Artyom!”

His tone didn’t waver. If anything, he sounded pleasantly surprised. Petroff was already fixing the stand to his bolt-action and was aligning the sights onto the Ranger’s helmet. It would be no good to show weakness to his men. They had their orders, and personal feelings were to be put aside for the good of the metro. They needed D6. It was pivotal.  
“Well… Your luck had to run out someday!”

The teasing words continued as though automated. Amusingly enough, Pavel’s presence had barely given Artyom pause. He pocketed something from the corpse’s jacket then began to inch cautiously backwards, his head still fixed upward to the searchlight. Like he was trying to peer past it. From the apartment windows surrounding him, dozens of green laser sights from bolt action and automatic rifles flitted over his torso.

“You can disregard the order about the weapon, okay?”

Of course, he didn’t. Artyom continued to ease himself back, his head now bobbing and scanning around each of the windows at a desperately fast pace. He kept his rifle, an AK47, held in a relaxed posture. He had told Pavel it had been given to him by some sort of odd ruffian… A Bourbon or some such. The lasers continued to flit around him, but still he did not raise the rifle. His entire body looked tense and coiled to run- or attack.

Still, he did not turn or try to run.

Why not? 

For the same reason the moron had stamped here all the way alone on the surface during a rainstorm. Why hadn’t the Ranger just made this easy? Why couldn’t Artyom decide enough was enough, and quit while he was ahead, instead of stupidly pressing forward to his death, like some sort of force of nature? The man was an idiot. An obstinate, resolute little jack ass, and in that moment Pavel almost resented him for making him do what he was about to do.

“Comrades!” Pavel continued. A cocksure smile played across his face, and he heard Petroff pull the bolt of his rifle loudly to his right. “We have special orders directly from comrade Korbut…”

Artyom had now picked up the pace and was stumbling backward at a swift pace. Pavel couldn’t take his eyes from him. He felt his hand grasp the microphone so tightly it was painful.

“… Concerning this very Ranger!”

The silhouette in the courtyard looked around wildly as he tried to identify where the shooters were, green lasers playing across his chest and face. The beam from his headlamp danced across the sides of squat, gray buildings and then a hand snapped up and deftly flicked the light off. No doubt, even now he was trying to plot a way out of a pit surrounded by a dozen sharpshooters. The stubborn fool. It was admirable.

“Our orders, are to eliminate him!”

He was now out of the pool of light from the searchlight, and the green lasers bobbed about uncertainly for a moment, only those with night vision able to keep their targets.

Finally, the orders came.

“Fire! Fire at will!”

An eruption of gunfire ensued, the rattle of automatic weapons, and the more methodical retort of bolt action rifles. Artyom dove to the side, slipped, and scrabbled behind one of the Red’s own sheet metal fortifications on his hands and knees. The ground behind him became torn up in earnest. Even from this distance Pavel could see the earth being ripped and kicked up as high velocity ammunition tore into it. He trained his own Kalash toward the sheet metal, finger on the trigger, monitoring for movement.  
He expected to see nothing. His men were well-trained. The volley of gunfire had been precise, but if there was one thing Artyom was, it was full of surprises.

It was almost systematic. It was something of a marvel. Pavel could see Artyom’s barrel edge out from the side of the sheet metal and fire, and in the next second the body of one of his men came barreling out from one of the windows. Pavel hissed in a mix of frustration and surprise and took his shot. He saw Artyom’s barrel jerk roughly back as the bullet punctuated the thin metal and felt no satisfaction in knowing he had hit.

The tense battle stretched on for nearly half an hour.

For every man who set foot on the ground, there was a pre-emptive claymore fixed in place. For every position one of the men switched, Artyom just seemed to know and accommodated for it easily. He slunk around down in the darkness like a wet rat, popping up between bits of cover at unexpected and unseen angles.  
Pavel shouted at him a great deal. Shouted and shot at him. Part of him hoped Artyom would take the hint and turn back, but he had always been stubborn. So stubborn. He was passionately driven and right now his goal was to pass through the Square, even if it killed him. The fact he was using violence spoke wonders to Pavel about just how desperate he was to get through- he knew the man to avoid lethality when possible. Which was ironic, considering he had blown up an entire nest of those Dark Ones he had spoken about.

There was little time to ponder it. Soon Petroff gave Pavel a side long look then rose stiffly to his feet. Pavel trailed him as the man stomped down the stairs, leaned in the doorframe toward the top, his Kalash readied. It was a good position, but unluckily for Petroff the plucky Ranger was making good time. No sooner had Petroff headed down the stairs did Pavel hear the thunderous roar of a shotgun discharging twice indoors, and the man cried out and his gear clattered to the ground.

It now all seemed suddenly very deathly quiet.

Then he could hear the uneven stagger of heavy boots dragging across the weathered floor. Pavel held position, licked his lips nervously, and braced his rifle around the doorway. After a second he could see Artyom. He could see Artyom. It felt bizarre. He thought once he refused to talk at the Red Line that had been it for him, but he had found him again in Venice, and now here he was at the Square after slaying a dozen men.

The Ranger looked worse for wear. He was bloodied and filthy and his jacket was riddled with holes, no doubt penetrated down to the Kevlar, and his armor plating was dented and crooked. He braced a hand against the doorframe and all but pulled himself into the room, one-handing a shotgun drunkenly in front of him. The visor turned upward toward Pavel and they locked eyes. 

The Kalash jumped against Pavel’s arm as he fired. Simultaneously, he felt the kick of buckshot slam into his torso, yanking at his jacket. He reeled backwards, hollering just about every swear and insult in the book at his old friend. 

“So, Artyom! You decided to show up, huh!” Pavel spat, trying to prop himself up. His hand crumpled beneath his weight, and he began to crawl backwards. Shouting all the while. Always talking. Artyom had said he had talked way too much. “About damn time, Ranger, we were bored out of our skulls up here! Come on, I’ll put a bullet in yours! Come up here and finish it then, Tyoma, don’t be shy!”

Silence answered.

He fixed the barrel of the rifle to the door, still trying to kick himself backward. Each breath felt ragged and his throat was tight and uncooperative. His eyes burned. Stupid. This man was stupid. He didn’t stop pushing himself backward until he hit the wall, and he propped himself up and kept the rifle to the door.

“Oh, you’re a chicken now? You’re a chicken? Is that what it is?” he taunted. He blinked rapidly, ignoring the hopeless prickle growing behind his lids. “Aww, poor D’Artagan! I feel bad for you, really, I do! Coming up here after me, it’s not as easy as burning helpless mutants, I know!”

The footfalls of boots could be heard echoing up the cement stairwell. The rain and wind continued to howl and beat upon the ground outside. A nervous peel of laughter erupted from Pavel, one he was quick to turn into a sort of derisive cackle.

“Tell you what, you toss your weapons quick and I’ll make it clean!” Pavel jeered. His voice warbled unevenly. “Up you go! Come on, you weak fucking bitch, do your legs not work? I know your brain doesn’t, that’s for sure, or you wouldn’t be here! You really need to learn to use your thick fucking head, Tyoma!”

Artyom appeared in the room’s door from the stairs, only for a second. A burst of gunfire erupted from Pavel’s Kalash and bit into the doorway, crumbling dry wall and unsettling dust, then the magazine clicked empty. He leaned his head back against the wall and watched the doorway without blinking. His heart hammered so much it was nauseating. Or maybe it was just his stomach. It had been flip-flopping since he saw the Ranger down there in the lobby, in the flesh.

The rain drummed. Fingers against a bar. Artyom had once joked they’d go to get a proper drink. Tea from Exhibition, he had said, and he swore there was nothing like it in the world. Well, the metro. Same thing. Pavel had not had the heart to tell him he had already tried the tea. That strange oddly sweet brew. He doubted he would get another chance. 

The silence remained. 

Pavel exhaled, his limbs weak. 

He thumbed the butt of his revolver, trying to untangle it from its skewed holster

Then the silence broke.

A soft sound, a gentle voice, one that was almost gravely patronizing, like a teacher lecturing a student.

“Pavel,” Artyom called out. There was a quiet string of swears that followed as the man staggered up the stairs.

He appeared in the doorway again, ragged and beaten looking. Both his weapons hanging in their slings. In his hand the Ranger gripped a knife, the one Pavel had given him back at the Reich. Pavel almost wanted to laugh.

“That’s my boy,” he cooed to Artyom. The man shifted the blade in his hand, advancing slowly and cautiously and Pavel laughed at him. “That’s my boy, you can do it! A knife, hah, like a real fucking serial killer! Atta boy! Come then, no remorse, let’s see it! Come on!”

Once again, Artyom was letting his eyes do the talking. He had always done that. 

At the Reich to the officer, daring him to make a move. When he was skirting along buildings alongside Pavel then would pause, tilt his head toward a busted door, a determined glint visible beneath his gas mask’s visor. He’d usually return with some goodie or another. Rangers were smart like that. Sometimes his eyes would just look tired, especially at night. Gazing into the fire brows knitted and worried but they were quick to crinkle into a laugh when Pavel spoke, or at the least would give him a reproachful look.

You talk too much, Pavel. I thought you Reds even rationed jokes, so how is it you never shut up?

He’d laugh at his own quip, one he used far too often, and would look back to the fire in better cheer.

Right now his eyes were not reproachful. 

They were not amused.

They were not a challenge.

He crouched in front of Pavel, and it was difficult to tell if he was deeply upset or just completely livid. He gripped the front of Pavel’s jacket and Pavel met his gaze directly, hissing between his teeth like a wounded animal. Daring him. The knife pressed against his throat and Pavel’s stomach lurched uncomfortably, but he met his friend’s eyes without wavering. An unfortunate outcome. Not unexpected. If Artyom was going to kill him, he was going to do it looking right at him. It was a matter of principle. The façade and taunting fell and Pavel’s expression was one of utter resignation. 

Then, movement from the left. Pavel’s eyes darted over to the dark, formless shape slinking through the open window and exhaled sharply. A Dark One. The Dark One. All spindly limbs, big eyes, and black rough skin, slick from the rain. It crept forward, tilted its head at Artyom, then to Pavel. It blinked its massive eyes slowly, boring into Pavel.

“Ah, so you’re setting the beast on me. Low even for you, D’Artagan, thought you had more balls than this,” he managed, shifting his attention back to Artyom’s face. His blue eyes looked rimmed red with exhaustion and heavy bags hung beneath them. “Some man you are.” 

Artyom’s eyes narrowed and Pavel felt the man force him roughly against the wall, then felt a cool, long-fingered hand grasping at his face. Everything went black.

It was a cacophony of noise. Impossible shapes swirled before him and Pavel felt his mind was snapping in two, and he tried desperately to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. Voices grew ear-shatteringly loud in volume only to drop into a whisper, familiar voices, ones he had only heard once on the street, and one singing lowly that he recognized as some reason as his mother. He could hear guns reloading, then found he was actually standing in this void-like space.

He forced himself forward. The ground writhed and parted beneath him, red and spongy, and he could see fine blue veins running along the tissue. The sky was endless, an endless poisoned green, and sometimes he would hear the unmistakeable sound of bullets tearing past his ears, or the whistle of bombs sailing through the air. It was dizzying, like the world was rolling itself into a ball, but he could see a narrow slit of daylight in the distance.

When he tried to force himself through the crevice, to what he thought was the surface above the metro, his pants became snagged. Probably on a root or overhanging pipe, something rotten from the old world, he reasoned. Pavel swiveled his torso and he saw the hand. Popping out of the wall, skin like a weathered, dried out tree trunk and the colour was one of flesh that was long dead. The bony fingers dug into him with surprising strength, and he drew back a hand to punch himself free.

Another one caught his hand on the back swing. He kicked and struggled, screaming incomprehensibly, and for each movement a hand appeared to counter him. Their grasp was smothering, violating, and he felt them fold over his chest like someone might do to embrace a lover. They caressed him, some gently, some harshly with sharp pinches like they were trying to part muscle and flesh. They were so skinny, they must have forgotten what flesh felt like.

Before he knew it, he was almost completely restrained, but he continued to struggle. His eyes ping-ponged desperately up and down the rows and rows of hands, and he tried to violently jerk himself free to no avail. He tried to reach for his revolver, to turn on him, or the hands, he wasn’t sure, but he choked in horror when he realized his holster was gone.

Then a figure appeared.

The only figure he could expect to appear at this point.

Artyom stood illuminated by the slit of daylight behind him, the one Pavel had entered, with nothing but a dark, sick void stretching out on either side. He didn’t look haggard and beaten anymore. His dark hair was brushed neatly and his blue eyes were sharp and lively, looking Pavel up and down. He didn’t even have a gas mask on, and wore no armor to speak of, donned in only simple clothes and a heavy jacket. He took a few steps forward, then looked around, as if listening to something, expression unreadable.

“Hey, hey!” Pavel shouted. “Artyom, my friend! I’m over here!”

Artyom continued to look around, brows furrowed with confusion as he took stock of the dark surroundings.

“Yes, over here! Hey!”

Artyom’s gaze locked onto Pavel and the troubled expression intensified. He took a hesitant step back and whipped his head to the side, ostensibly still listening to some unheard stimuli. 

Pavel’s heart sank.

“Hey, don’t leave me here! Artyom?” he called out. Desperation crept into his tone. Pavel was a proud man, but he was pleading. “Please, Artyom! I- hey, I’m scared! Please!”

Artyom remained frozen and the imperceptible walls began to close in. The light behind him began to fade and Pavel could feel the hands gripping him moving faster and faster around his body, their hold on him tightening. He shuddered and let out a terrified shout.

“Don’t leave me here! Don’t you dare leave me here like this!” he snapped. “Get over here and kill me! Please, just kill me!”

It was frustrating. It was like the stubborn little bastard was barely listening and Pavel could feel the wall at his back solidifying onto his coat like drying candle wax.  
Then the Ranger took an abrupt, jerky step forward. Then another, and another, and soon the man was in a dead-sprint like Pavel had only seen a few times. He half-expected to see a demon swoop down onto the man’s heels at any moment, but of course that didn’t happen. Artyom was quickly in front of him, trying to pry the bony hands from Pavel’s limbs and swearing quietly to himself. 

When he found the claws were impossible to budge, he patted his hands up Pavel’s side, searching for purchase, and eventually gripped under the man’s armpits. He locked eyes, resolute and determined looking as ever.

“On three,” Artyom said in a deadly low voice. “Together.”

“Together,” Pavel affirmed.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Surprisingly, Pavel popped out of the grasping hands with relative ease, him pushing, Artyom pulling, and he stumbled down from the wall. The hands wisped into black smoke like they had never been there and disappeared. He tripped forward into Artyom and steadied himself by gripping the man’s shoulders, wheezing and gasping for air. 

The darkness, however, was growing. 

Artyom’s face was getting harder and harder to see. It was as if the blackness was edging toward the pair to swallow them up. Pavel tightened his hold on the man’s shoulders and looked at him as though trying to bore through his skull. 

There were a lot of things he was trying to say. He wanted to apologize. For everything. He wanted to explain his side of the story to his comrade, to explain why he needed to follow orders. They had both done things they had regretted on orders, this Pavel knew from the way Artyom spoke of the Dark Ones, and he needed Artyom to know this. He needed to tell him he still valued him as a companion, hell, as a friend, and wanted badly to just beg him to stay, to not pass through the line and completely obliterate any chance he may still have of joining the Reds.

Not that he would. The man was stubborn.

Artyom sighed slowly, his shoulders still grabbed by Pavel. A deeply forlorn expression crossed his face but he managed a sad smile. He ran his own hands down Pavel’s arms, feeling in the darkness until he reached his shoulders, then Pavel felt the man pull him into a hug, one he leaned into and clumsily returned via an awkward little back pat.  
All light was completely gone. They stood there for a moment, two grown men hugging like children, then a tinny ringing sound wailed in Pavel’s ears and he knew no more.

The rain drummed outside, then tapered off into a soft patter.

The wind howled, then dropped to a low moan.

Winged beasts flitted down from the sky to feed upon the corpses and pick at their eyes.

Pavel awoke.

He wasn’t sure how long had passed. A small Coleman’s lantern was lit beside him and he winced as he propped himself up, feeling the ground for his Kalash. Blinking the fog of  
unconsciousness from his eyes, he saw that the rifle was leaning against the wall so he leaned over and grabbed it. It was still empty.

With some difficulty he pulled himself to his feet. Dried blood caked the front of his jacket, but he noted his wounds had been bandaged- otherwise he would have bled out and never woke. As he walked through the disturbingly quiet apartment toward the radio, he also noted his filter had been changed. He wasn’t sure how long he had been knocked out but he knew it was definitely long enough for his air to have expired.

Which meant Artyom had seen to him. Despite everything.

The man was an enigma. 

Pavel eased into the chair in front of the communications station, which was just a radio on a small wooden table, and held the microphone close. He had been given strict orders to maintain radio silence, but he needed to warn them that the operation to overtake D6 could now be compromised. The Ranger had gotten through.  
He looked over the dim landscape of the square, mind racing.

He should contact the others. He should. They’d already lost too many good men today.

That would certainly lead to Artyom’s demise. He doubted he could get through a Red barricade in his current state.

The microphone felt heavy in his hand. He turned a knob and a static hiss erupted from the radio.

He could contact them.

Or he could try to track down the idiotic Ranger.

He could even do nothing.

The rain pattered down on the roof.

Pavel swallowed uncomfortably.

The radio continued to hiss.


	2. Empty-Handed

The radio hadn’t panned out. 

In the end he decided to establish contact with his superiors, but he was met with a dead line, and was given nothing but a weak collection of static from the further stations. So Pavel set off, skirting around the edges of buildings like a rabbit at the edge of a field. He didn’t like being the rabbit. It didn’t suit him. Wailing on the radio surrounded by the corpses of his dead or still dying comrades hadn’t suited him either and he decided more proactive measures were needed.

They had all died. Somehow, Artyom had managed to put them all down with a sort of efficiency Pavel hadn’t expected of him. A complicated medley of anger and confusion was gnawing away at him, and under that, though he didn’t like to admit it, he was also impressed. Little Artyom stripping a Red checkpoint of their defenses, forcing a barely lucid Pavel out into the surface. The Square was as good as gone from Pavel’s guess- unless he somehow expected to single-handedly hold off a concentrated effort from Rangers, or whoever else was stricken with the fancy to cross through the complex.

No. Proactive measures were needed.

The torrent of rain had thankfully died down to nothing more than a drizzle, but the wind still inhibited his hearing more than he liked. Going it alone was always risky on the surface. If it wasn’t an opportunistic band of stalkers turned raiders it was the actual inhabitants of Moscow you had to be concerned with. Even small, usually skittish beasts understood a man by himself was a fairly easy meal, and so the wind taking the forefront of one of his senses wasn’t something Pavel cared for.

He’d gathered what he could from his comrades. Mostly ammunition, some filters, a spare mask, and even a hot thermos he reasoned Petroff wouldn’t be needing. He could remember every position he had assigned. Collecting the supplies had been easy, and people more suspicious than he might have thought there was something ill-fated about looting the still-warm corpses of what had been living, breathing humans, humans that had been under his command. 

Pavel was not superstitious, so his pack was comfortably more laden than some of the, as he saw it, less educated Metro dwellers. To be a good communist, one of the first things to cast aside was silly notions regarding the supernatural- heaven, hell, specters, demons, and a whole manner of things people had concocted. A sort of rudimentary way of trying to make sense of the unnatural new life being spent underground that he didn’t have time for.

Though as he walked, the vision he had seen was nagging more and more at him. Every time he attempted to cast the thoughts of the grabbing arms, the voices of strangers, and even his own mother, an annoying nip of doubt would wiggle into the back of his mind and try to dig in there. It must have been a trick. Some sort of mind-bending trick from that little Dark One. Disturbing, yes, but it was all purely biological. After all, those beasts were well known for their little psychological manipulations, they could debilitate entire watch posts. There was no shame in being a little on edge after such a close encounter, and Pavel just tried to be thankful he hadn’t been dealing with an adult. It did lead credence to the hypothesis bouncing around the Red Line. Those things domesticated and unleashed onto the enemy would be devastating.

Roughly two hours had passed since he headed out from the Square and the signs of human life were gone. It had been at least fifty minutes since he’d last seen the orange glow of a fire within one of the windows to a dilapidated office building, and now there was nothing but gray, overcast skies. The sound of rusting buildings calling out in long, laboured voices as they tried to hold themselves erect filled the air. There were many immobile cars, and those that weren’t sitting on rims, were collapsed low to the ground on their bellies.

Despite himself, Pavel could feel his injuries getting the better of him. His chest seared and burned with each breath, and he was sure if he undid his jacket and removed his Kevlar he would see the bandages beginning to bleed through. He’d made this trek before. It wasn’t a conventional one, but he knew by taking it he could give Artyom and his Ranger cohorts the wide-berth…

“Fucking dogs,” he hissed to himself. Very lowly, and only to hear the sound of an actual voice. The creaking conversations the shells of buildings had with their squawking, mutated residents didn’t do wonders for his nerves.

Pavel forced himself from the roadway, shimmying between cars, toward the remnants of what looked to be some sort of collapsed stairwell. The building looked impassable, which meant it was perfect. No need to worry about an ambush. He settled down on the crushed steps, keeping a wary eye out on the streets and surrounding buildings. All had been quiet so far but he didn’t want to push his luck.

It had only been a few minutes before he heard slow, plodding footsteps. Pavel jolted to his feet, not so much frightened as he was ready to fight, though that was definitely a factor. The safety catch to his Kalash was off in an instant, and for several long seconds he trained it on where the steps were echoing down the street from- oddly enough, he found he couldn’t see who was causing them.

“Hello there!” a voice called out. Obviously a man’s, though not terribly deep, and it carried a friendly cadence.

Pavel squinted behind his mask, trying to locate the figure. The voice seemed to have come from absolutely nowhere, but it didn’t carry like every other sound in the empty streets. It had sounded close and somehow was directed only to him rather than echoing. He lowered his rifle slightly but made no move for the safety catch just yet.

“Who’s there, then?” he called out after his search had failed. “Hey, listen friend, I’m having a pretty… Complicated day. Let’s not complicate it more by doing the whole hide-and-seek drill, huh, what do you say? Come on out and we’ll talk.”

The irony of offering to talk while holding a loaded rifle was not lost on Pavel. If he had a bullet for every instance someone had tried something similar on him, he’d be a very rich man- but he wasn’t going to have some stranger ducking after him for the rest of his journey.

The silence dragged on for a moment. Pavel was just going to become very fed up and chalk the voice up to his imagination when from behind the bulky remains of a delivery van, something emerged. 

“Something” because it wasn’t a human. It had a round, buggy head and orange glassy eyes that reflected Pavel’s headlamp back at him. After a second of gawking at the creature poking out from behind the van, a hand emerged. A hand with a glove, a hand coming from a sleeve, and undoubtedly a human hand. It waved cheerfully. Suddenly Pavel felt very stupid.

The figure emerged from behind the van, and it became clear he was very much a human. A man. He was short and looked like he had a slight frame, though it was hard to tell from his bulky clothing, and had a very odd mask. It wasn’t any model Pavel was familiar with. It was a dingy, off-green, and the lenses had been modified as a sort of reflective orange. 

“Sorry! I’m here… I was- I was weighing my options!” the man replied. His features weren’t visible but his smile could be heard clearly in his voice. He stretched his arms up dramatically, then interlaced them behind his head. “I’m unarmed and I’m going to approach, okay? I don’t like shouting from across the road! Just a quirk of mine!”

As he watched the short man make his way toward him, hands on his head, Pavel had the notion that that was only one of the odd little fellow’s quirks. He watched him cautiously, but was smart enough to at least put on a friendly face

“Hello, again,” the man greeted once he was close. He inhaled deeply, letting his shoulders rise and fall dramatically. “Isn’t that better?”

“That remains to be seen,” Pavel chuckled. He was a bit amused, if not slightly unnerved, by the man’s odd mannerisms, but most of all he was leery of what he was doing in this territory. “What are you doing up here, huh, brother? What kind of options were you weighing behind that old van?”

Pavel let his gaze shift from the man’s impassive masked face over to the van, wondering if he should be anticipating some kind of ambush.

“Oh, all kinds,” the little man replied seriously. He’d yet to remove his hands from his head. “None pertaining to you. Well… Toward the end, maybe there was one or two, but mostly I was behind the van due to my own issues. I don't really get along so well anymore, my leg bothers me, so I need to think quite a bit before moving. Like I said, my own issues. But we all have issues though, don’t we?”

His muffled voice took on a sly, knowing tone.

The small man’s head tilted slightly to the side, in a somewhat unnerving, jerky movement. He was swathed in a bulky, off-gray jacket that looked remarkably clean, as were his dark pants. The material looked vaguely shiny, like some sort of radiation suit. An inordinately large pack was strapped to his back, but he had no weapons or lightsource in sight.

He observed Pavel.

Pavel observed him.

“I suppose,” Pavel replied after the silence stretched on long enough to feel uncomfortable. He prided himself on the command he had over his own demeanour, but his tone became guarded. “Who are you? What are you doing up here, I- oh, for the love of… You can put your hands down now.” 

“Nikita, I’m Nikita,” the small man said, letting his hands fall down by his side. He stretched them out to his sides, as though exhausted from holding them up. He rolled a shoulder. “I’m just up here because, well, because I am. I also don’t answer two questions subsequently until I get at least one answer from the other party- just a quirk of mine.”

Again, Pavel had the sinking suspicion Nikita had more quirks that remained to be seen. He was becoming increasingly aware he was alone with this stranger, and though he didn’t appear armed, there was something about him that was putting him on edge. 

Still, for the sake of information gathering, he’d play along.

“Right. Well, then! My name’s Pavel, and I’m up here- well, you’ll find out once you answer my other question, okay?”

“I don’t think it’s fair you get to ask two questions in one go, do you? And if we’re going to get technical, I didn’t even ask you anything. You took it on yourself to give your name without waiting for my prompt.”

Pavel stared blankly at the fellow for a second, beginning to wonder if he was cooked on mushrooms. 

Nikita put up a hand defensively then waved it, as if shooing his previous words away. 

“But, I’m nothing if not accommodating!” Nikita chirped. “I’m up here because I’m scavenging. A more mundane purpose than most people who pass through this stretch of road have, I know,” he continued, shaking his head. “I’ve been stuck up here a lot longer than I’d like. Plenty of air left, but the surface isn’t my home. And home is where the heart is, so I’m feeling rather out of sorts at the moment, being away from my heart for so long… Still, I keep looking. I can’t return empty-handed.”

“Yes, scavenging the surface’s a hard way to make a living.”

“Isn’t it though? It barely feels like living at this point. Still. Can’t return empty-handed. I can’t.”

Pavel nodded and smiled sympathetically, though it wasn’t visible beneath his mask. He began to walk slowly down the stone steps, giving Nikita the wide berth. Was this man seriously trying to beg on the surface? Pavel could understand the struggle of the common man down in the metro, especially in stations that didn’t care about equality and an even share, but this hardly seemed like the right location. 

He inched along the wall and gave Nikita a backward glance, then let his headlamp illuminate the rows of empty cars. No bandits. It was odd for a stalker to be alone, but maybe Nikita was telling the truth.

“I’m not a rich man, Nikita,” Pavel said, alternating his gaze from the cars to the smaller man. “But I know someone who’s needy when I see it. Here.”

He thumbed a small pouch of military grade ammo from his front pocket and held it out.

“It isn’t much, and definitely not the sort of scrap you’re vying for,” Pavel continued, giving the pouch a small jiggle. “Take it though, take it. I need to get going, but I can’t rightly leave you in this sort of state, it wouldn’t be- well, it’s just a matter of my principles, alright?”

Nikita had been trailing slowly behind Pavel without way of a headlamp. He wasn’t even steadying himself on the side of the building, and instead kept his skinny arms crossed against his chest. His masked head gave a firm shake.

“Ah, you have a kind heart. I can tell,” Nikita responded warmly. “And though your principles may guide you, rigidly following them can also limit you. Maybe take you somewhere you don’t want to be. So, you keep your MGA. You never know when some sort of armoured beast is going to back you into a corner.”

“There’d be a lot less skeletons laying around if that was the case,” Pavel agreed, stowing his pouch away again. He tried to ignore his comment on his principles. There was nothing limiting about being convicted to a set of beliefs.

He continued to walk along the building, annoyingly aware Nikita was trailing him. It was obviously for the sole purpose of following him, as Pavel was heading toward the van the smaller man had emerged from behind. After several feet Pavel turned on his heel, rifle braced against his elbow.

“Like I said. I need to get going,” Pavel said patiently. “I’m tending to some personal business at the moment and need to do it alone.”

“So stubborn, Pavel. I can’t return empty-handed, my heart…” Nikita sighed, muttering to himself. His steps faltered and he fidgeted with his gloves. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit lost. I haven’t actually talked to anyone in a little while. My companions left without me a few days ago, so…”

“What, a failed regroup or something?” Pavel questioned, but didn’t wait for the answer. “You could have said so. Come here, I know a shortcut. Trade secret, I’ll mark a place on your map and orientate your compass bearing if need be. Ah, but don’t spread this around, okay? I don’t need other stalkers making a move on my territory.”

Nikita’s face wasn’t visible, but from the way he straightened up he was apparently happy. He presented a threadbare little map inked onto a patch of some sort of fabric square. It displayed an outline of the metro tunnels, as well as some surface exclusive features. It wasn’t perfectly accurate, but would get the job done. Pavel twisted the compass’s dial and set the bearing toward one of the side tunnels he knew about, but was absent on the map until now. It became awkwardly quiet as he adjusted the map, and all Pavel could hear was his own breath straining through his filter and the creaking buildings.

“There will be a red brick building, following this bearing about… Nine hundred metres or so?” Pavel stated, pressing the items back into Nikita’s hands. “Doesn’t look like much, but some guys dug in a messy little passage down into one of the Metro’s maintenance tunnels. There might be some rats to deal with, but it’s the closest way underground I know of, and better than lingering up here.”

“No doubt,” Nikita said. He held the compass gingerly in his hands, as if it was some great treasure, then bobbed his head up toward Pavel. “Maybe I’ll finally get home now. I can’t believe they left me- Alexey’s going to get my boot deep up his ass, I can tell you that much.”

“Ah, I’m counting on it,” Pavel winked. He held out a hand and pumped Nikita’s hand up and down, feeling a bit rude for leaving his glove on, but not troubled enough to risk frostbite. “You take care, friend. And… Avoid jumping out at anyone else coming this way. I doubt they’ll be as accommodating. Anyone gives you trouble at the maintenance tunnel, you tell them Pavel Morozov sent you, okay? Hell, mention me next time you’re in Bolshoy and maybe I’ll be around to buy you a drink, huh?”

Pavel turned abruptly, and began to stalk away.

He knew full well if Nikita ran across any of his people, they’d likely throw him in a holding cell until he could validate his claim. At the very worst, they’d shoot him, but Pavel reasoned he had better chances trying to bypass the Red Line than being stuck on the surface.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a drink,” Nikita laughed behind Pavel’s back. “I’ll hold you to it if we meet again, but I hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

There was a pause in the small man’s speech, then he took on a more somber tone.

“See you,” he said.

When Pavel turned, Nikita was gone. He saw nothing but darkness and open air, the vague shapes of bent over machinery and rubble. Just went to show how much a light made you an obvious target on the surface.

He continued on his way, a bit troubled by the time the brief stint with Nikita had consumed. He wasn’t entirely sure how much time had elapsed since Artyom had initially forced his way through the Square, but he hoped whatever the case was, he wasn’t too late to warn his comrades. He wasn’t sure what the little Dark One could do to them, but he assumed it was nothing pleasant.

So focused he was on planning and fretting, he nearly tripped flat on his face as he navigated through the maze of cars toward the opposite side of the street, where the entrance he was headed to was located. It wasn’t an easy hike, but it should at least take him to the command post that had been set up, and with luck he’d be able to collect his bearings then reroute to D6 if the mission was a success.

He steadied himself on a nearby car, wincing as the white hot pain shot up his ribs from his injuries, and searched for the culprit. The light from his lamp bounced along the cars, off the van, then down onto the leg of some poor, unfortunate soul who hadn’t made it.

Seeing corpses was not at all uncommon on the surface. In fact, the absence of them was more worrisome. It meant there was something nearby predating on them. But this particular corpse made his blood run cold and his stomach drop.

Not because it was anyone he knew, at least not that he could surmise, but… The garb was shockingly familiar. The corpse itself was frozen and stiff looking, and it was concealed completely. He could assume it had been dead awhile given how skeletal the limbs were inside their clothing. Well, the remaining limbs. The right leg was completely gone, and there was an ugly shock of rusty brown on the corpse’s chest- it was such severe damage Pavel couldn’t tell if it had been a shotgun blast or if something had ripped and stripped the poor fellow’s innards.

More disturbing than the grievous wounds, was the man’s mask. Its visor was modified a sort of reflective orange, and it was an odd, greenish model Pavel was not familiar with.

That did it. 

A good communist did not believe in demons, spirits, or any other nonsense of the like. That’s what Pavel tried to tell himself, but he found himself forgetting his injuries in order to sprint across the street in an odd mix of disgust and panic. 

He didn’t stop running until he hit the entrance to the command post, and when he halted he felt dizzy. His breath was ragged and came with difficulty. Either his injuries were getting to him or he was more scared than he wanted to admit. 

He didn’t want to focus on it. He tried to focus on his mission.

Pavel wheezed to himself and made his way through the building, eventually descending down a cracked mess of concrete that served as stairs. Wincing, he wedged himself through the narrow crack of a stone slab propped over a small passageway and continued through.

After traveling through the uncomfortable mix of wall and dirt for he didn’t know how long, he hit the end. Still dizzy, he pressed himself against the concrete slab impeding his march until it gave way, and slipped inside.

It was deathly quiet. He tried to shrug of the silence and instead continued to where he knew some officers would be set up, trying to decide what story to tell. To admit he had lost the entire Square to one man was going to make him look stupid, or like a traitor. It wasn’t exactly a secret he’d traveled with Artyom, and he hoped he could at least present himself well enough to look truthful and still have a place in the Red Line…

Troubled thoughts continued to torment him for the duration of the journey, which was still unnaturally quiet. The time had long since passed that he had been expecting to meet a sentry and he was now apprehensive at what he might find. His mask wasn’t on any longer, so he couldn’t blame the silence on limited senses.

His boots thudded heavily until he reached the post. 

“Hey, anyone awake?” he shouted in a jokey tone, standing at the edge of the red emergency flare, several feet away from the little tarp that had been set up for the communications officer.

The lookout points were empty, and the fireplace held nothing but embers.

Making no attempt to be quiet, Pavel approached the tent and tore it back keeping his rifle in hand.

It was empty.

There was absolutely no one. 

He approached the radio, turned the dials, and received nothing but dead air. He walked out of the tent in a confused trance then looked down the tunnel to where some of their advance scouts had gone during the initial planning for taking D6. He knew the passage would take him close to there, but he wasn’t sure if their mission had succeeded… 

For several long moments he could do nothing but stare. Everything inside of him wanted to sit and wait, but he felt obligated to continue. If not for his own people, than for what? Answers? There was nothing he couldn’t ascertain simply by waiting for the situation to begin to correct himself. 

Then why was he walking down the tunnel, rifle in forward position? Certainly not for the Rangers. Certainly not Artyom, he tried to convince himself. At this point he was beat to shit, potentially facing expulsion as a “traitor,” and he wanted answers… Or to at least look ahead. That’s all there was to it.

He switched on his headlamp, illuminating the tunnel toward D6 and the spent casings that lined the ground in the eerily silent passage.


	3. Chapter 3

Emergency lights illuminated the way. The dull, red glow coming from the flickering bulbs captured the smoke and sulfur hanging in the air and held it there. Pavel was reminded of projection shows. Cigarette smoke drifting lazily in front of a white canvas blanket, the sound of men talking and drinking. But the acrid vapour permeating the air now was not from something as innocuous as a cigarette. It was thick and heavy and hot, and it burned his nose. The voices of the men in the distance were not talking and they certainly weren’t drinking. There was frightened masculine muttering, an indistinct but tense chorus of sound occasionally punctuated by a brusque shout or an agonized scream.

The operation had resulted in a whole-sale slaughter. Pavel picked his way down the tunnel, stepping over spent casings, bodies, viscera, and jutted shards of twisted, burnt metal. He kept looking directly ahead except for when the obstacles in his path demanded otherwise. Ahead, a derailed machine lay on its side, one it took him a second to realize was a train. Black smoke curled out from its flank, like a massive, fallen beast taking its last breaths.

The sound of his boots hitting the floor echoed dully, the crunch and shift of gravel and grit popping along with the low crackle of the flame. His breath was uneven but he wasn’t tired. The wounds he had earned in the square were acting up with an incessant ferocity, and they tried to speak and use pain to force logic into his actions. 

_Stop walking! Why are you walking? You’re hurt! Turn back. Sit and wait. Plan with a clear head._

Pavel did not listen. Instead he shifted his rifle to the side and squatted, trying to peer into the bent windows of the train. The inside of the carriage was charred and smouldering, and a few blackened corpses with their gear melted to them were plastered to the floor.

“Hey?” he spoke lowly. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. “Who’s there?”

No one answered.

Not surprising.

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself back up, then looked down the tunnel again. Cement barricades, lengths of barbed wire, and burst bags of sands. To his shock, in the middle of the no-man’s land there was a lone figure. The stranger was crouched down over a body but as soon as Pavel looked at him, it was like he had felt the gaze and his head snapped up. The stranger stayed crouched but his hand fumbled toward something at his belt.

“Hey!” the stranger barked. His voice was gruff and irritated, and sounded like he was forcing it to sound deeper than it really was. “Who’s there?”

Pavel almost wanted to laugh. He’d just asked a carriage of burn corpses the same question. Instead he raised his hands slowly, showing his palms.

“Eh? I’m a friend!” he called back. He interlocked his hands behind his head. “See? Pull that pistol off your belt and shoot if you like, brother, but you won’t be doing yourself- or me- any favours.”

The stranger rose slowly. He carried a visored helmet under one arm with the Ranger’s insignia stenciled to it, which he fixed over his head, and kept a pistol in one hand. After a second of juggling he produced a flashlight with the other, and trained both the beam and the weapon on Pavel. Pavel felt a flinch of annoyance and to a lesser extent worry. He wore a pleasant, if not slightly strained smile as the man approached.

“Friend or not,” the man said, limping slowly over. He looked rather young for a Ranger. “This is a restricted area. I don’t know how you got here. Right now I don’t care.”

Mere feet away, he pulled the pistol’s slide back, now with an audible click. Disheveled armour was fixed to his shoulders and knees, but not to his chest. Instead he wore a basic looking bomber’s jacket and after a second it was clear why. His chest was bare and wound almost completely in gauze until the bottom of his ribs, and his movements were jerky and pained. The dressing was smeared through in places with the reddish brown tint of blood.

“I’ll give you one chance. Turn around. Leave. Now.”

Pavel chuckled defensively, visibly nervous. The other man’s hands were practically vibrating, and the flashlight beam was bouncing up and down Pavel’s face and torso. There had been a note in his voice toward the end that sounded almost pleading.

“I… Can’t do that. As in, physically, I can’t,” Pavel protested. “Injuries and threat of blacking out aside, I need to relay something to a Ranger of yours. Assuming he’s alive.”

“Well, what Ranger?” the young man asked. He looked somewhat relieved but didn’t lower the gun. “Is it pressing? If you can’t tell, we have our hands full. Technically, you should have been shot on sight.”

“In that case I’m glad you don’t get hung up on technicalities. The Ranger I need to speak with is a crazy little fool. Named Artyom.”

The other man suddenly looked very uncomfortable. That didn’t bode well.

“He _is_ alive, isn’t he?” Pavel asked, studying the man’s face. 

“Well… Yes. No. Maybe. Everything’s to be kept under wraps. I can’t let you through. Tell me the message and I’ll relay it. If he’s alive.”

Pavel made a clicking noise with his tongue and shook his head.

“No can do,” he said. “I can’t speak to anyone but him. I can’t say much about it, but I helped him get back to your order. Say, tell me, friend, what’s your name? The most identifying fact I know about you is that you’re pointing a gun at my head but, ah, that’s kind of a mouthful.”

“Abram. Abram Ivanovich.” Abram lowered the gun and watched Pavel uncomfortably. “Pass your weapons over slowly. And tell me who you are.”

Cautiously hopeful, Pavel complied with the young man’s demands and slowly began to set his gear down. “Vadim Igorevich,” he answered without hesitation. “Your Ranger knows me by something else. If you tell him Athos is here to speak before… Going home. He’ll know who you mean.”

“Okay, Vadim Igorevich,” Abram nodded. He slung Pavel’s equipment over his uninjured shoulder. “I’ll lead the way. But only because I am tired of bloodshed for today and I trust your intentions. But I’ll still be watching you. If you’re lying, there’s older guys in there that aren’t nearly as understanding, get it?”

“Got it.”

Abram nodded again and walked forward, moving quickly through lengths of barbed wire that had been cut with pliers. Periodically he glanced over to Pavel, as if assuring himself he wasn’t going to pull a gun. As they made their way through the wreckage and into the heart of the operation, no one even paid them any mind aside from a curious glance. Pavel followed like he was supposed to be there, a serious, unapproachable expression on his face. There were bodies being lined up in rows. Dozens were in such ruin they were mangled beyond recognition, missing limbs and nearly indistinguishable uniforms. Bedraggled men stood over them, identifying the corpses and sometimes sorting through possessions. Some were crying. Some just looked on pale-faced and expressionless, arms crossed.

Abram nodded to one of the men, who offered a thin smile in response that didn’t reach the rest of his face. Pavel looked on sympathetically but did not slow his pace, forcing Abram to continue on the way. The young man took Pavel further, moving past stockpiles of weapons and ammo, more corpses, and a few overworked doctors until they reached an area sectioned off by thin hanging curtains in cubicles. Talking could be heard within some, low and grim. 

“Wait here,” Abram said sternly. He wagged a finger at Pavel and turned. “No funny stuff.”

He disappeared behind one of the little cubicles and greeted whoever was there. His voice dropped to a mumble too low to eavesdrop on reliably, so Pavel waited. He looked around impatiently, taking stock of just how well the Rangers were equipped and how many were serviceable after launching their counter attack. Ostensibly this was some sort of impromptu medical bay. All things considered, it looked fairly organized. 

After a moment, Abram popped back out from behind the curtain. 

“He’s not overjoyed,” he shrugged. “You have a few minutes. As always, no funny stuff.”

Pavel thanked the young man, who muttered something non-committal and took up a position outside the curtain. The thin material didn’t offer much in the way of light protection, and the inside was bathed in the same red emergency light as the rest of the bunker. Bags, clothing, and pieces of armour were strewn on the floor beside a cot with a stool by it, and sitting up in the cot was a very familiar Ranger. 

He was bare-chested underneath a scratchy woolen blanket. An arm was in a sling over his chest, and all over his body were various, circular bruises from deflected bullets. His face was gritty and scratched, a mask of stubborn smoke and grime that wouldn’t come clean, and there was a very unamused expression plastered there. The dark grit framing his eyes made them look pale and haunted. 

His dark hair pointed in several exciting directions, except for the ones it was supposed to.

“Wow,” was all he said. He looked at the revolver by his bed, then back to Pavel. “You’re the last person I expected to walk through that curtain.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Pavel responded innocently.

“You’re full of something, ‘Vadim.’”

An awkward pause grew in the room. Pavel hovered by the doorway for a second before walking in closer, gazing about the little cubical as if taking in a very luxurious living room. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. Artyom watched him steadily, a small frown growing on his face.

“You weren’t supposed to follow me. I thought you had more sense than that.”

“Funny,” Pavel said. “I was just thinking the same thing earlier today, when I saw that little Ranger head of yours coming over the crest of the square. Do as I say, Artyom, not as I do.”

“If I did that, I suppose I’d be growing fat and happy on the Red Line, huh?”

Artyom spoke restrained and stiltedly. Pavel smiled and shrugged.

“Perhaps you would. Or maybe you’d be stuck with me, thin and hungry, running dangerous and exciting missions,” he winked. He crossed his arms, looked around the room again, and blinked a few times. “Torching mutants, setting up caches, spreading equality and ideology all up and down the lines for a united Metro. Bah, no sense in getting whimsical, right? But the offer is always open, d'Artagnan.”

Artyom went quiet and glanced away. For several long seconds he just stared at the blanket across his legs, jaw clenched and the muscle working. 

“And the offer will always be declined,” he said flatly. He looked back to Pavel, eyes burning. “So, is that why you came here? Or did you come hoping your comrades had wiped us clean, saw it was the contrary, and decided the next best thing would to be to… To pester me? I didn’t want you dead, Pavel, but I certainly didn’t want to see you again either. Especially not barely a day after you were _shooting_ at me. Not the same day your people came and- and… Did you really think this would go over well?”

His blue eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed, shooting an accusatory, yet confused look at Pavel. Pavel clenched and unclenched his fists, then sat down on the stool.

“To be fair, you were shooting at me too. See? Our friendship has always had a pretty evenly measured give and take-“

“Debatable.”

“Eh, yes, debatable,” Pavel nodded, squinting and turning his hand side to side in a so-so kind of way. “But I didn’t come here to debate who has shared the most booze and stories- it’s me- or who has burned the most spiderbugs- it’s you. Or even who has burned themselves the most _while_ burning spiderbugs- coincidentally, also you…”

Artyom let out a sharp laugh and smiled despite himself. The amiable look vanished as quickly as it had come, and once again he simply looked guarded. If not slightly pained. 

“I didn’t come here to torment or recruit you,” Pavel continued. He dropped his tone, no longer sounding playful. “And yes. Honestly, I hadn’t expected there to be much left of the Rangers here. I sensed things had gone poorly- for mine, anyway- and considered turning around.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. Because, Artyom, I had to see if you were alive.” Pavel cleared his throat and let out a chuckle. “Silly, right?”

Artyom was no longer looking at Pavel. He gave his head a small shake, but remained mute.

“Yes, it is. A little bit. Lucky for you, I’ve never claimed to not be a silly man.” He leaned back in the stool and let out a slow breath. “I don’t know. Believe me or not, and I don’t blame you if you choose not, but this… Wasn’t exactly planned. I just acted. I’m not sure if I even expected to find you, and I definitely don’t know what to say now that I have. Maybe ‘thank you.’”

“For?” Artyom asked cautiously, still watching his blanket like it was suddenly very interesting.

“A lot of things. Mostly for not killing me.” Pavel smiled wryly. “Not even that. It’s not even that you didn’t kill me, you went as far to ensure I wouldn’t die. Call me superstitious, but I thought, having come this far, I should at least ensure you hadn’t kicked the bucket for karmatic purposes.”

Artyom raised his eyebrows and tittered to himself. “Karma. I thought you weren’t superstitious,” he said quietly. Pavel made a shushing sound.

“Yes, well don’t go spreading it around, okay?” Pavel hissed in a stage whisper. “Look. With everything that’s happened, I still consider you my friend. And yes, it’s all a pretty fucked up, confusing mess, but you’re my friend all the same. I don’t think we will see each other again. If we do, it’ll be like the Square, through iron-sights.”

“I have holographic, you dramatist.”

“Okay, then it’ll be through _holographic_ sights. Smart-ass. Anyway, what I’m saying is I don’t want a good-bye with you being dragged off to be- well. Hm. Interrogated. Or firing upon one another. Unless you come with me, to the-“

“I’m not coming to the Red Line,” Artyom interjected sternly.

Pavel threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, okay,” he yielded. He just couldn’t stop going back to that. “No Red Line. Even though it’s _very_ nice, and a man of your talents would be well-accommodated…”

“Pavel…”

“Okay, okay, I accept it. I just wanted to part on better terms. It’d be kind of like when we first met, right?”

“Ah, in a Nazi holding cell, knee-deep in spiders and blood. Definitely want to re-visit that moment right now.”

“Well, if you think it’ll help set the mood I’m sure it can be arranged! What I mean is, okay, we were both scared shitless- well, you were- but there was a bit of optimism there.”

Pavel rubbed his hands together and coughed lightly. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, and from the look on Artyom’s face he wasn’t certain either. The Ranger waved his uninjured hand, indicating for Pavel to be quiet. He rubbed his eye and sighed.

“Maybe it’s the head injury, but you’re talking in faster, wider circles than usual,” Artyom muttered. He turned to Pavel, gaze lingering on the revolver. He was tired and beat looking, but his eyes were bright and lively. “I shouldn’t have even cleared you to come in. For all I know, you’re going to run off and relay absolutely everything to your superiors.”

“Whatever’s left of them,” Pavel replied, not wanting to confirm nor deny anything. “Theoretically.”

“Right. Give me all the cute answers you like, but I know your _modus operandi_ by now. Duty and obligation takes precedence over all else. I get it. But I also know rigid loyalty, achieving your goals by whatever means… Sometimes it feels like you’re doing the right thing when you’re not. And you don’t even realize it until you begin to ask questions, to look at the bigger picture. By then it could be too late. Usually is.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about your Dark Ones.”

Artyom lay his head back and closed his eyes. He shook his head, and when his eyes opened again they no longer looked lively.

“This applies to a lot of things,” he answered softly. “Pavel, in all your badgering me to join your ranks, have you ever considered leaving instead?”

He watched Pavel, searching his face. There was something calculating there, and it made Pavel tense. He smiled non-comitally.

“You could leave,” Artyom continued. “If not to join the Order, to throw yourself into a less politically charged station. I know people. They could get you new documentation. You could live in The Ring, you could be protected from those who would cry desertion- if they even think you’re still alive. We wouldn’t need to see each other ‘through iron sights.’”

“Holographic.”

“Be serious. You could leave today.”

“I could do a lot of things today, Tyoma,” Pavel shrugged. His patient smile became strained. “But I don’t think that is one of them.”

He rose abruptly from the stool, wincing slightly and massaging his ribs. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. If I ever had one.”

“What, you’re uncomfortable so now you’ll up and leave?” Artyom asked, jolting up straighter in the cot. He swiveled around with a pained gasp and let his feet touch the floor, as if to get up and stop the other man. “At least consider it. I wish you would.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, brother, but these are the cards we’re dealt. The Red Line’s done too much for me to just desert.”

Pavel straightened the front of his coat and took a few steps toward Artyom. The man watched him steadily but gloomily.

“If we do see each other again, and things have calmed down, drinks will be on me,” Pavel tried to sound upbeat. His voice was more unsteady than he liked. “You be good until then. No more suicide missions, or fraternizing with the enemy.”

He stood in front of Artyom, both looking at each other. Artyom just looked weepy, and maybe a little mad, and Pavel’s own throat was uncomfortably tight. He laughed defensively and spread his arms dramatically wide, smiling at the Ranger with a dopey, expectant expression. With a soft scoff, which turned into a harsh, suppressed sob, Artyom raised his uninjured arm to pull his companion into an awkward, hunched over hug.

“No tricks with the drinks,” he murmured hoarsely to Pavel.

“Ah, I’m out of tricks.”

“Good.”

Pavel released his hold and pulled back, then reached out and teasingly tousled Artyom’s hair. “What a girl you are, getting so misty over this,” he cooed sardonically. “Good-bye, musketeer.”

“Good-bye, Athos,” Artyom replied with a sad smile, trying to flatten his hair back to a respectable level. 

Pavel gave a mock salute, which Artyom returned, and turned on his heel. With that he was gone, leaving Artyom to his cot, to the heavy solitude within the sick bay. Pavel strode out of the makeshift  
cubicle, ignoring Abram’s questions about how things went. Instead he walked purposefully back toward the exit tunnel, stone-faced but blinking and clearing his throat a little more than what could be considered normal.

Relinquishing his equipment from the young man and, again, ignoring his requests to meet with any superiors, Pavel walked along the path from D6. Not much time had passed. There were bodies still in no-man’s land, and by the time he was past the burning train his cheeks were wet and he was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He took some slow breaths along the way to compose himself. As soon as he was back home, he would have to speak with his superiors. For that he would need to put on the best face that he could muster. 

Once he chose which one to present, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! I might write more if there's interest, but for now I'm done. Thanks for reading and I hope it was slightly entertaining for you guys.


End file.
